Tuesday, December 29, 2009

excerpt from: "Bullets For Babylon"

Part l

Why? That’s the big question. How to answer it?
Am I going to start this with some confession about how unfair this world has been to me? How I’ve been hard done by? That Lady Luck is a bitch? I could. And maybe I should. But I don’t want to begin on some down note. ‘Cos that’s not who I am. I’m a realist. I deal in reality.
I’m suppose to turn 19 next month. What a thought! I wonder what the ratio is of people who have turned 19 to those who have not made it that far? I plan on changing the numbers.
My kid brother’s a cripple. No reason really. Just a bad roll of the dice. We were all running, jumping, diving, off of Red Rock into the quarry pond. Free falling feet, head, ass and belly first. Thrills & kicks, y’know. Nothing out of the ordinary. We must have all done it at least a couple of hundred times each over the years. And out of all of it, Robbie was the one to do it... well wrong.
It was the sound that tipped us off. And it was sorta strange ‘cos somehow instinctively, collectively, we all knew. In different stages we went and looked over the edge. No thought of the circumstances. Just a curiosity, really.
Now, when you jump and hit the water you go down about 20-25 feet and it’s 4-5 seconds before you re-surface. But not with Robbie. He sank. And maybe, just maybe, if I had of known then what the outcome was going to be I would have left him. Left him to be whole.
* * *

...and fuck it. Really & in an absolute way. ‘Cos I’m not wrong in these thoughts. There has to be a cleansing of sorts. A washing away of the shit & scum. A cull of sorts... a human cull. To remove the rotten, the turning, the venal. And someway or other I realize I am the light. I am the way.
* * *

internecine love... the only kind I ever lived. And to what end? The fruition of all my desires. How much better could it be? Rosaly, o you lovely bitch, my heart is yours but I get to keep my puritan brain. These bullets are like a love letter, sweet, pure and deadly to its cause. O, Rosaly, you are all that I will miss. How could one so fucked up be so beautiful?
* * *
These days feel so confining. Everything pushing down on me. And I wonder why? I am not in need of much. Sure a car would be nice. But in the same moment I haven’t worked for a car so it’s kinda moot to think that I should have one really. I have this feeling of not being able to move, to do anything that it would not be the same, perhaps w/ a different view but still the same gnawing feeling. The gnawing of nothingness. I have an idea, a plan that I want to put into effect. It is grand. It will be earth moving. I think I may be a little afraid. There are things that will unfold as this journal goes on. It won’t take long. Maybe a week or two. I’ll do my best to get it done right and in a way that is both efficient & expedient. I’ve been in the army cadets for years now. They taught me about discipline, planning and achieving the objective. “My men didn’t cheat. They adapted, they improvised and they overcame.” Hamburger Hill and the Clinter, or somthing like that.
* * *

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

... a moment in conversation...

“How do people meet? Really meet? Is it a sturdy handshake and a hearty ‘How do you do?’ Or is it with an eye to eye glance? A thunderclap? A dull roar like the morning surf? How?
“What great G-d machinations are in effect? What underlying energies are in play? What toe tingling mysteries flow?
“Are sensations below the waistline the true north? Or the pilot heart, steering by the north star? How does one know? And how when the power of attraction has blinded all senses do we still decipher the maps of our human… destinies? Nay, desires. Biblical deceptions, biblical truths.
“And can we meet anyone without love? At some level? Some degree? A lust love? A mind love? An absolute beauty love like… say January Jones, Marlon Brando? A fill the void in love? All love? Moment love? Death & Birth love? Sour candy love? Brother love? Sister love? All love? Lists by the dozen love? Dirt & blood love? Holy saint love? Broken down eyes full of tears love? Sunshine flooding through broken world love? Desperately abandon all to gain the whole world love?
“Has the line of questioning drifted? Have the dream-lines redefined the horizon? Can heartbeats truly fade the frontline emotions?
“Breathe deeply in, breathe deeply out. Now, tell me truly, how do people meet?”
“That’s one of those… ah… rhetorical questions, right?”
“Rhetorically speaking…yeah.”

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

more excerpts:

Drowsing in the late afternoon heat, he started awake suddenly. He hovered in that moment between dreamland and reality. Louis felt a wave of panic crash over him. He didn’t know where or who he was for a moment.
The long lone sound of a truck rolling by on the highway was soothing. Its familiarity calmed him. It was a reminder of sorts that the world outside was still there, going by. That he was still part of that world.
Country music wafted up from the radio downstairs in the motel’s office. It reminded Louis of the barn dances he had been taken to as a child. Staying up way past his bedtime. Watching the old men pouring what he thought was dust onto the floor so that the shoes would slide easier.
He remembered how the band would come on, country-checked shirts all matching, and everybody would get up to dance. Sometimes they wore kerchiefs tied around their necks just so. It always seemed to be the same band, the same songs, they were so familiar.
He told his mama one time he wanted to be a guitar player in a country band. She had grabbed him by the mouth, making his mouth look like a scrunched O and looked him right in the eye and told him: “You ain’t going to be no honky-tonking guitar playing cowboy, y’hear!?!” “Yes, m’m.” He’d dutifully replied, not quite understanding.
Now he lay back on the bed with a lukewarm beer in his hand. The sun slanting. The music far off filling his ears.
“Damn, these beautiful Country songs about love, about heartbreak.
“Damn, why can’t I once be the guy? Why can’t I be loved so well that the loss would be so great? What’s wrong with me? Am I not song worthy? Will I never be song worthy?”
Waking up fully Louis laughed and jumped up to get a cold beer and a glass of whiskey to chase it on back.

Monday, September 28, 2009


“…and the echoing, faintly, of the one binding word. The simple word that has started wars, blood feuds and has helped to re-generate our population. O, lusty hymns sung in your praise. O, guiding light.
“When I look at the stars, especially on a cold winter’s night when they vibrate like diamonds, I am filled with harmonies upon harmonies singing out. Singing out as one. Singing out: LOVE.”

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

100 THINGS I WILL MISS: (and not in any particular order.)

1. I will miss the sounds of horses pulling their wagons.
2. I will miss the inherent beauty (and smell) of the out-house.
3. I will miss the church bells ringing out their daily reminders.
4. I will miss the shadow from the line of a woman’s hip-bone.
5 I will miss the way women can make their ponytails sway back & forth, just so.
6. I will miss the taste of the fresh spring-fed well water at The Farm.
7. I will miss lying in bed watching the sunrise at The Farm, then rolling over and going back to sleep.
8. I will miss Orion in the Fall & Winter sky.
9. I will miss the sound of river water spilling over rocks, singing.
10. I will miss the scent of a good bonfire on my clothes the next morning.
11. I will miss the smell of fresh cut pine.
12. I will miss the streets of Paris.
13. I will miss the writings of Dostoevsky.
14. I will miss the paintings, poetry & artistry of Wm. Blake.
15. I will miss the smoked meat sandwiches from Schwartz’s.
16. I will miss the Autumn in Ontario when it seems all of Nature is burning, singing out the colours of life.
17. I will miss the smell of fresh falling snow.
18. I will miss the feel of cold beer on a hot summer’s day.
19. I will miss the briefness & brilliance of falling stars.
20. I will miss Henderson the Rain King.
21. I will miss the pain of loss.
22. I will miss caring about something so much I forget to sleep for days.
23. I will miss first kisses.
24. I will miss riding motorcycles.
25. I will miss fishing.
26. I will miss Grandma Lambe’s apple pie, hot with a slice of old cheddar cheese.
27. I will miss the sound, smell & feel of Erika; my typewriter.
28. I will miss driving, all day & all night, across the Prairies.
29. I will miss moose.
30. I will miss the Moon, in all its phases.
31. I will miss black on white.
32. I will miss Székelyföld. (Transylvania.)
33. I will miss my motorcycle jacket.
34. I will miss oak trees.
35. I will miss skating, ice & board.
36. I will miss the wind.
37. I will miss the whine of chainsaws.
38. I will miss the last & first ice cream of the summer.
39. I will miss the memories of holding O.’s hand.
40. I will miss criss-crossing the continent in old V.W. vans.
41. I will miss the Banff of the 80’s.
42. I will miss kissing my love’s eyes.
43. I will miss Al Jaffee’s Snappy Answers To Stupid Questions and the empty talk balloons you got to fill in.
44. I will miss the jungle heat.
45. I will miss snowmobiles.
46. I will miss maple syrup.
47. I will miss the smell of lilacs in bloom.
48. I will miss Renoir’s paintings.
49. I will miss listening to foreign languages and making up my own dialogues.
50. I will miss the memories of my dog, Casey.
51. I will miss hearing laughter.
52. I will miss sailing boats.
53. I will miss waltzing with my Green Bitch Mistress.
54. I will miss the poems of Rimbaud.
55. I will miss daydreaming.
56. I will miss earth shaking thunder & lightning storms.
57. I will miss the terror of my nightmares.
58. I will miss Nana’s butterscotch pie.
59. I will miss swimming in lakes & rivers.
60. I will miss Gramma’s lemon meringue pie.
61. I will miss Beethoven’s IXth Symphony.
62. I will miss human conflict.
63. I will miss the first day of Fall.
64. I will miss crows.
65. I will miss polar bears.
66. I will miss cheating at Solitaire.
67. I will miss fine red wine.
68. I will miss Guinness.
69. I will miss my holy communion.
70. I will miss the I Ching.
71. I will miss John Coltrane.
72. I will miss Csilla’s cooking.
73. I will miss chess.
74. I will miss the sound of drunkards, in all languages, singing.
75. I will miss falling asleep to the sound of the surf crashing onto a beach.
76. I will miss laughing with my brothers.
77. I will miss my Mother’s smile.
78. I will miss Leonard Cohen’s poetry... & music.
79. I will miss the Thrill of The Flyer.
80. I will miss my own romanticism.
81. I will miss Mordecai Richler’s words.
82. I will miss The Fear.
83. I will miss the madness at Mrs. Tweedle’s house.
84. I will miss all the dreams I forgot to chase.
85. I will miss skiing powder.
86. I will miss saying “86 it.”
87. I will miss Beauty in all its unqualified forms.
88. I will miss the Danube.
89. I will miss having no regrets.
90. I will miss the kicks I’ve had with my friends.
91. I will miss the sorrow this life has often afforded me.
92. I will miss the pure joy vibrations of harmony.
93. I will miss the constant singing of “holy, holy, holy” in my visions.
94. I will miss Big Sur.
95. I will miss the desire to peek into the “other” world.
96. I will miss singing along to Gordon Lightfoot.
97. I will miss all my dreams I made come true.
98. I will miss the balances.
99. I will miss the conversations I’ve had with myself.
100. I will miss my memories of trying to lasso the moon.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

excerpt from work in progress titled: "novel".

“Christ! You look like hell, Robbie.”
Louis turned towards the voice with his good eye.
“Henry.” Shit, shit, shit. Louis thought. This is going to complicate things. What the hell is he doing here?
“You look like the last time I kicked your ass.”
“Dream on, Henry. I’m still 3-0 with you.”
“C’mon, Robbie, that’s creative memory for sure.”
Henry stared at him for a sec.
“Christ, with your left and you look like this? Can only mean one thing.”
“There must have been more than one guy.”
“I tripped while doing the Tango.”
“Yeah, sure Robbie.”
“Robbie?” Nat broke in.
Henry turned and looked at Nat. Hmm, pretty woman, he thought.
“Yeah…,” Louis hesitated, “ah… Robbie. An old nickname. From an old friend.” He quickly silenced Henry with a look.
“Henry, can I have a minute with you?”
“Nat, we’ll be right back, ok?”
“Uh-huh. No problem, Louis.”
“Order a couple of whiskeys and an extra glass of ice.”
Louis pointed to his all but closed eye, shrugged and grinned.
He then swept Henry off to the parking lot.
“Louis? Robbie’s a nickname? What the hell you got going on here?”
“Well, I can explain…I…o shit. Bottom line, Henry, I’ve escaped out of my old life. I got a new name, new bank account, new identity, new everything.”
Henry stared, with a gravity, a sense that he had all the time necessary to understand whatever it was Robbie was talking about. Louis stared back as if his explanation should suffice to clear everything up. He shrugged and gave him his best confidence smile.
There was a beat.
“I know the look, Henry.” He sighed, resigned. “There just isn’t the time right now.” He turned to go back inside. Hoping Henry would follow.
Henry remained rooted.
He spoke first. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re cheating on Suze. She was always a bitch to me anyways.”

Thursday, August 13, 2009

thinking about other's words

“The dreamers dream from the neck up, their bodies securely strapped to the electric chair. To imagine a new world is to live it daily, each thought, each glance, each step, each gesture killing and recreating, death always a step in advance. To spit on the past is not enough. To proclaim the future is not enough. One must act as if the next step were the last, which it is. Each step forward is the last, and with it a world dies, one’s self included. We are here of the earth never to end, the past never ceasing, the future never beginning, the present never ending. The never-never world which is never concluded, never shaped to be recognized, all there is and yet not the whole, the parts so much greater than the whole that only God the mathematician can figure it out.” – Henry Miller

Monday, August 3, 2009

Love Is A Virus... or beginning notes for that idea.

“They say that breaking up is hard to do”, they weren’t kidding.

Love is a virus that is often described as an illness. “H/she is lovesick”. You must look to curing the illness in as complete and clinical way as possible.

There are numerous ways to break-up with people. You can call them. Send them an email. Do it in a public place or at home noisily. No matter the method.

It is what you do after the split that makes all the difference. Honesty is the key to the whole mess. And not some faux-honesty to the other person. No, honesty to yourself.

Firstly, sterilization of the physical and mental situation. The areas you live in must be de-contaminated. This way you do not perpetuate the illness. Photographs, letters, clothing, furniture, all physical traces must be removed.

What do you think you’ll be thinking about if you have a framed photo of your broken heart’s desire beside your bed? Not clear thoughts or thoughts that aren’t wasting your time. You must clean up your area so that you don’t keep on re-infecting yourself.

Out of sight, out of mind. Not denial of their existence but a healthy cleaning of the slate is in order to allow you to see a world untainted by them.

Make a definitive cut. Demand that a period of grace is set-up where you agree not see one another in private. Also, try to avoid seeing them in public as much as possible as well.

This prevents you from embarassing back-sliding break-up sex. Sex is an action full of shifts in status and power. A seductive option. Don’t get back into bed with your ex; ever. Don’t go back into that arena. (exception to the rule is: invited into bed with your ex and their twin)

Like any physical or mental addiction if you stop cold turkey, then have tastes of your desire, you will return to square one in the process of the break-up square dance.

You must take back what is yours from before the relationship. A city, books, movies, if shared they are tainted and should be de-contaminated.

Beware of negative and dishonest thought patterns that tell you how the pleasures of life no longer seem to have the same flavours and excitements now that they are gone…hogswash. This is the tired, lonely mind speaking. Get rid of these thoughts. Now.

The illogical bit of missing someone is that you don’t usually miss what you had, you miss what you could have had!

Be careful of the media - therein lie traps. The movies and songs perpetuating the myths of love are deadly to believe in. They have taught generations nothing but unrealistic fairytale love; and they have left us with our mediocre emotions. All of them learned reactions.

These knotted emotions, real and otherwise, entwined and raging… well, it’s no wonder we’re all confused. The fairytale love is sweet and pretty but it is not realistic. “Love is a bitch for the blues”.

O, how right. But that is not a reason to quit love. No, not at all. Love is the greatest emotion of them all, also the most dangerous. We must not take it lightly. So, unlike when we rush into love we must be careful not to rush out of it, and cause ourselves undue troubles.

Before you start to talk again about the relationship, take the time alone to try to understand what you are going through and why. It is important to be honest with yourself.

At this time there is nothing wrong with being on your own. The population of the world is not at stake.

Name calling, revenge, all that is truly just against your own wounded pride and ego. Let it slide. Don’t get into that arena. Hey, if it’s over then why bother?

Keep conscious and listen to the things you are saying to yourself. Then judge whether or not they are honest. Imagine the little angel and the little devil, like in The Flintstones, on your shoulder. Listen. Whichever one is looking forward with open eyes and heart. Listen to them.

The other path leads to loss of energy and self-respect.You cannot fool yourself. The sooner you admit to yourself you made an error in judgement - the quicker you’re free from it all.

Friday, July 31, 2009

poem words of my other lost self

Jazz Prose

Water the flowers! Let the
sun shine warm. The breeze cool.
For today I am wont to wander.

A picture of you tripped the
floodgate. A picture of you
set the pace. A picture of
you freed me from
my daily existence.

Time traversed. Time eased into
a lull that removes the tick
tick tick. Time acting civil, like a
lady. Time open and accommodating.

An almost forgotten room.
The smell faint in my mind. The
colour faded in my eye. The street
sounds trapped in my memory’s echo.

You were the Queen of my
world, my mind, my soul. Ruling
unconsciously, beautifully, sublimely. I
don’t think you knew. I never
told you, properly.

That room. Of our conspired
pleasures. Us, hidden behind
thick curtains. Us, hiding from the phone’s
intrusions. From the outside’s bogeyman.

Hearts beating to our drummer’s
tune. Close and touching with no
anxiety of expectation. Talking w/out
words. Like a sister to a brother.

Your eyes of blue, shimmered.
Our skin was young then, elastic,
strong. Our stomachs flat upon
one another’s. Our kisses eternal.

How can ink and paper
possibly do justice to yr
spoken lips? To yr slight
muscled neck? To yr raven hair?
To you?

I found a picture of you.
Distant glance. Brief glimpse.
The past’s glare. My senses
rattled by who we were.

What cares have I of lost or
misplaced love? Chances
missed, opportunity’s last call.
Once we were on fire. Unstoppable
& unprecedented in our union’s desire.

I saw a picture of you
today. The onslaught of my
emotions overwhelmed me before
I could act. W/ you I don’t
mind. I never did.

Let my nerves sing, my heart
swell and inertia hold my
body. For today I want to
remember you. I want the
pain among the pleasure.

I can see you,
holding the room’s attention, down
to the minutest particle. Queen of
yr Universe. Essence connected to
Essence; direct line.

I can feel you, close like a
summer heatwave. Around me
and w/in me. As much me as
I could allow anything else to be.
Permanent like bedrock.

The conscious memory of you
comes and goes on its own
schedule. Fleeting and elusive
w/ a bottom end like teeth.
Sharp, strong, and potentially
dangerous. How appropriate.

Your form: Classic. Your
heart: Colossal. I am drowned
in yr remembered presence like a rainy day.
Safe and warm in the fold.

I am swimming in the warmth
of your memory. Every point
I want to make is
floating pin-like in the dark.
A galaxy of inspired wonder.

Monuments beyond syllables
should be erected to you.
Flesh offerings and sacrifices
beyond pedestal love. New
orders. I could tear down
the old.

I am living the memory
of you and it's like it was
today. W/ all the raging
melodramatics that love demands.
I feel like tomorrow corrected.

Your slightly crooked teeth
w/ their fuuuh sound when you
breathed in while thinking. Or yr
calm composure while yr eyes darted
taking everything in. These
are the subtleties I did not overlook.

Your hands soft as they seemed
to melt w/ mine. Your fingers
w/ mine a spider’s web of flesh.
Catching, holding, containing us. A
realm unto themselves.

A picture is worth a thousand
words. And each picture the
first invokes is another
thousand words. Thousands of thousands.
A staggering exponential.

I’m thinking of you as I’m scribbling
these lines. The rain is drumming
the beats of my heart. I’m
thinking of you. All because of
a picture I saw.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

more quotes, more thought food

“For the Universe has three children, born at one time, which reappear, under different names, in every system of thought, whether they be called cause, operation, and effect; or more poetically, Jove, Pluto, Neptune; or theologically, the Father, the Spirit, and the Son; but which we will call, here, the Knower, the Doer, and the Sayer. These stand respectively for the love of truth, for the love of good, and for the love of beauty. These three are equal. Each is that which he is essentially, so that he cannot be surmounted or analyzed, each of these three has the power of the others latent in him, and his own potent.” –R.W. Emerson (from: The Poet)

Monday, June 1, 2009

something to ponder

practice |ˈpraktəs|: 1 the actual application or use of an idea, belief, or method as opposed to theories about such application or use. 2 repeated exercise in or performance of an activity or skill so as to acquire or maintain proficiency in it.

Friday, May 29, 2009


A million notes in order to remember the day to day. The moments, that yes, make up the moments. And to someway or other organize, memorize, to understand the hows, whys, the meanings. 'Cos right now I'm floundering. I'm not on solid ground and I'm all but falling apart. Huge weights of 'known' pressures barrelling down on me. The unknown spooky as fuck on one hand and the knowable on the other. I am alone. I am the one and only achiever and planner for my destiny. I must focus all thought on getting it right. How do I expand my thoughts to books? To stories. And how do I de-woodify my writing? I want it to be wooden and I can't. I don't want it to be wooden and it's mahogany rush. Discipline is the message whispered on the wind to me. But whose? Mine? I have next to none. Except in pursuing my false pleasures. So long ago the feeling and meaning of the actions were forgotten. Mere mechanics... tick tick tick. And I have to find a way to look people in the eyes? Let them know I’m ok? I’m on the run. I always have been. I said somewhere that I am never truly comfortable. That I have only been comfortable a couple of times in the last years. And that was in a canoe, floating on a lake fishing, drinking beer. My straw hat shading my head as my feet got hot in the sun. Thinking of nothing. Mostly because I was so many miles away from any sort of civilization or place to do anything other than what I was doing. Fishing. I pulled some nice bass out of that lake, too. As a matter of fact I pulled the champeen bass out of that lake and was told so by the other two guides who had been fishing it all summer. Man, that was a beautiful day. Drifting around the lake, trying out hunches, coming up with nothing. Smoking my pipe. (I still think I’m too young for a pipe!) Then I was heading back to the cabin, the sun low but not quite setting behind me. I paddled hard, got some good speed then put my paddle in the canoe. It was coming around a point that had a rock shore that dropped and a big old log stump. I picked up my rod as I glided through the water and let fly my lure. BOFF! As my lure hit the water’s surface the bass hit my lure. As if they were both jumping, one from the sky and one from the bottom of the lake, to meet one another. Like long lost cousins running up a train platform to meet and hug and kiss one another. I fought him. And he fought me. In the end I won. I pulled him into my canoe after what seemed an eternity of him waltzing on the lake’s dance-floor surface. The sun slanting in a way that made the water’s reflection fire. The bass just kept dancing on his tail. Beautiful. I wrapped him in newspaper and took him back over to where the group was having their campfire cook out and showed him to the people. They were all foreigners; from a long way off. Come to see Canada’s great outdoors. I’d delivered. I was glad that supper was over because then I didn’t feel obligated to kill this watery prince. I slowly lowered him into the water, he floated dazed, shook himself once, twice and he was gone. I cut the blade of my paddle into the water and made for the cabin at the other end of the lake. Absorbed in the outward graces of the day.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

ant WAR

The Ant War
Henry D. Thoreau
(an excerpt from “Walden”)

“I was witness to events of a less peaceful character. One day when I went out to my wood-pile, or rather my pile of stumps, I observed two large ants, the red one, the other much larger, nearly half an inch long, and black, fiercely contending with one another. Having once got hold they never let go, but struggled and wrestled and rolled on the chips incessantly. Looking farther, I was surprised to find that the chips were covered with such combatants, that it was not a duellum, but a bellum, a war between two races of ants, the red always pitted against the black, and frequently two reds ones to one black. The legions of these Myrmidons covered all the hills and vales in my wood-yard, and the ground was already strewn with the dead and dying, both red and black. It was the only battle which I have ever witnessed, the only battle-field I ever trod while the battle was raging; internecine war; the red republicans on the one hand, and the black imperialists on the other. On every side they were engaged in deadly combat, yet without any noise that I could hear, and human soldiers never fought so resolutely. I watched a couple that were fast locked in each other’s embraces, in a little sunny valley amid the chips, now at noon-day prepared to fight till the sun went down, or life went out. The smaller red champion had fastened himself like a vice to his adversary’s front, and through all the tumblings on that field never for an instant ceased to gnaw at one of his feelers near the root, having already caused the other to go by the board; while the stronger black one dashed him from side to side, and, as I saw on looking nearer, had already divested him of several of his members. They fought with more pertinacity than bull-dogs. Neither manifested the least disposition to retreat. It was evident that their battle-cry was Conquer or die. In the mean while there came along a single red ant on the hill-side of this valley, evidently full of excitement, who either had despatched his foe, or had not yet taken part in the battle; probably the latter, for he had lost none of his limbs; whose mother had charged him to return with his shield or upon it. Or perchance he was some Achilles, who had nourished his wrath apart, and had now come to avenge or rescue his Patroclus. He saw this unequal combat from afar, - for the blacks were nearly twice the size of the red, - he drew near with rapid pace till he stood on his guard within half an inch of the combatants; then, watching his opportunity, he sprang upon the black warrior, and commenced his operations near the root of his right fore-leg, leaving the foe to select among his own members; and so there were three united for life, as if a new kind of attraction had been invented which put all other locks and cements to shame. I should not have wondered by this time to find that they had their respective musical bands stationed on some eminent chip, and playing their national airs the while, to excite the slow and cheer the dying combatants. I was myself excited somewhat even as if they had been men. The more you think of it, the less the difference. And certainly there is not a fight recorded in Concord history, at least, if in the history of America, that will bear a moment’s comparison with this, whether for the numbers engaged in it, or for the patriotism and heroism displayed. For numbers and for carnage it was an Austerlitz or Dresden. Concord Fight! Two killed on the patriot’s side, and Luther Blanchard wounded! Why here every ant was a Buttrick, - “Fire! for God’s sake fire!” – and thousands shared the fate of Davis and Hosmer. There was not one hireling there. I have no doubt that it was a principle they fought for, as much as our ancestors, and not to avoid a three-penny tax on their tea; and the results of this battle will be as important and memorable to those of whom it concerns as those of the battle of Bunker Hill, at least.
I took up the chip on which the three I have particularly described were struggling, carried it into my house, and placed it under a tumbler on my window-sill, in order to see the issue. Holding a microscope to the first mentioned red ant, I saw that, though he was assiduously gnawing at the near fore-leg of his enemy, having severed his remaining feeler, his own breast was all torn away, exposing what vitals he had there to the jaws of the black warrior, whose breast-plate was apparently too thick for him to pierce; and the dark carbuncles of the sufferer’s eyes shone with ferocity such as war only could excite. They struggled half an hour longer under the tumbler, and when I looked again the black soldier had severed the heads of his foes from their bodies, and the still living heads were hanging on either side of him like ghastly trophies at his saddle-bow, still apparently as firmly fastened as ever, and he was endeavouring with feeble struggles, being without feelers and with only the remnant of a leg, and I know not how many other wounds, to divest himself of them; which at length, after half an hour more, he accomplished. I raised the glass, and he went off over the window-sill in that crippled state. Whether he finally survived that combat, and spent the remainder of his days in some Hotel des Invalides, I do not know; but I thought that his industry would not be worth much thereafter. I never learned which party was victorious, nor the cause of the war; but I felt for the rest of that day as if I had had my feelings excited and harrowed by witnessing the struggle, the ferocity and carnage, of a human battle before my door.
Kirby and Spence tell us that the battles of ants have long been celebrated and the date of them recorded, though they say that Huber is the only modern author who appears to have witnessed them. “AEneas Sylvius,” say they, “after giving a very circumstantial account of one contested with great obstinacy by a great and small species on the trunk of a pear tree.” adds that “’This action was fought in the pontificate of Eugenius the Fourth, in the presence of Nicholas Pistoriensis, an eminent lawyer, who related the whole history of the battle with the greatest fidelity.’ A similar engagement between great and small ants is recorded by Olaus Magnus, in which the small ones, being victorious, are said to have buried the bodies of their own soldiers, but left those of their giant enemies a prey to birds. This event happened previous to the expulsion of the tyrant Christiern the Second from Sweden.” The battle which I witnessed took place in the Presidency of Polk, five years before the passage of Webster’s Fugitive-Slave Bill.”

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

rambles are ok... today.

if it was a sunrise sort of idea, if it was first light, from the darkest hour, if it was Venus rising to be faded by the light, if it was all dew soaked well then I’d realize that perhaps all was well, that the plumbing was working, that the drain drained, that the things in this world that mattered were all in some kind of proper order. O how the list could go on: people walking on green lights, the wheat becoming golden, the surf breaking perfectly, the holiness of being screaming thru it all, in such perfected harmonies that nothing not even the broken teeth, the rusted machines, the faked abortions, the human offal, the discarded, could change the pitch, the tone, the perfect buzzing harmony, and out of all this, the only thing beyond a gnawing mosquito sound is the blue blue sky, full w/ one, & the odd human bug travelling to space, also exalted by a few other human bugs. O, O, O, & in it all there are the moments when there is an extra-conscious, a boost of energy, a shift in the being, that comes from being, destitute, pampered, no matter, ignored or white knuckled eyes wide peeking into to it all, a whole, a complete landscape of being presents itself, from Adam to Atom, and some that look never return, some remain transfixed in a Totality, completing it somehow, others take to complete, and others are humbled, and sometimes, again & again thru Time you find the corner of the veneer peeled back, and peeking is the only path, the only choice, and whether it is strong periods of being or times of weakness, no matter as it is a pre-determined action, the only parallel I can draw is the excitement & trepidation’s after dropping acid, the first 15 minutes, 30 minutes, 45 minutes, before the take off, before the world opens and the trip really begins, that wondering of ‘Wow…did I really do it this time?, am I coming back?, will I remember any of what I knew before?’. There is a beautiful old woodcut that is on the cover of a book, I believe it is called ‘The Discovers’, where a man is half in the world and half in the other ‘unseen’ world, the fascination that it exists, that we peek into it, that in our spines the human being, the human race is, at least, in understanding of this pt., a pt. that has no language to explain it, truly we are the race of Babel.

… and really what thoughts? What differences? I sit in the near summertime streets & I dream, I read, I listen to the cars & the murmurs of the passerby’s, I am throbbing w/ the rhythm of an ancient type, deep down blood flow, deep down lost connection, but what matter? really the sun is hot, the air humid and full of sounds that help transport me to other places & times.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Haikus from days gone by.

still night whispering
shatters the early dawn mist
like migrating geese

hot water boiling
awaiting the green tea leaves
with Spring almost gone

train platform hauntings
with steel wheels slipping goodbye
as past meets future

melting kisses bloom
for the new season’s coming
wet snow on my boot

humming car engines
like one hundred white horses
move Time without Space

with flat feet slapping
Love ran up the small rough hill
And dreamed of old friends

Monday, March 16, 2009

The Minus 2 Sonnets

Awhile ago I decided to write some sonnets. Give it a go and all that. But I got the basics wrong. I wrote 8 syllables lines instead of 10; thus The Minus 2 Sonnets. Here they are:


I stole away and cried for you
In corners dark and sunless rooms.
Our last goodbye, the morning dews
disturbed by the gun’s echoes Boom!
The chase was on, and we were split;
I to the Moon and you the Sun.
Spent in the woods; a world unlit.
I, in darkness, still on the run.
Round Heaven and Stars I did roam.
To find you out; alive or dead.
My image of you almost gone.
My heart filled with blackness; dread.

So Sun come out and sing your song
For Darkness has reigned far too long.


Odysseus, to Ithika
Your home and kin, long left behind.
The paths you take are mythical
The obstacles so well defined.
A Goddess, favours you, so bright,
With loving guidance holds you true
Through your perils and sorry plight
With wind filled sails and star night blue.
To Ithika you come unknown.
Wreaking bow vengeance; right restored.
Your identity revealed, shown.
A harmony, life’s perfect chord.

Telemachus, Penelope
Have you back from Posiedon’s Sea.


The open road of Kerouac.
Exhilerating cars and gurls.
Across the continent and back.
Jazz and tea, motion twirls and swirls.
Holy mornings, sunsets, back beat.
Epiphanies, all visions clear.
Exploding drug mad, mad minds meet.
Angels singing for them to hear.
Bill, Neal, and Allen bop dealings.
Travelling their similar paths,
To the outer limits of things.
Jazz and words mixed with life and laughs.
And so that time has come and gone,
Good night sweet princes of that dawn.


A quilted blanket of all Time
That organizer of pattern.
I wish that it could be all mine
My mood would not be (quite) so saturn.
Think of a Time and then be there.
The fabric shifts and all dreams come.
Shall I be brave and think to dare
And to all dangers appear as numb?
Adventurer through Time & Space
A bold and mighty man alone.
I might even peek at God’s face
To see if I would turn to stone.

Late night train wheels clickety-click
Lulled by my study clock …tick tick.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell:

‘The Voice of the Devil’:

“All Bibles or sacred codes have been the causes of the following Errors:

  1. That Man has two real existing principles: Viz: a Body & a Soul.
  2. That Energy, call’d Evil, is alone from the Body; & that Reason, call’d Good, is alone from the Soul.
  3. That God will torment Man in Eternity for following his Energies.

But the following Contraries to these are True:

1. Man has no Body distinct from his Soul; for that call’d Body is a portion of Soul discern’d by the five Senses, the chief inlets of Soul in this age.

2. Energy is only life, and is from the Body; and Reason is the bound or outward circumference of Energy.

3. Energy is Eternal Delight.”

- Wm. Blake


I’m probably dreaming some fantastic fantasy existence where the people I care for & love live w/in a proximity that each & everyday the love & energy that is being put out by everyone by the sheer fact of the energy being is returned 10 fold to everyone so that they may be filled w/ that good knowledge that they are not alone, that they are part of a strong group of individuals who by chance are creating this situation, I am alone here, as I am alone in most places, except now I am not so numb to the fact, my bitch green Mistress is here to ‘soothe’ my solitudes, they are brazen & sitting bold faced in front of me, I fear that I have spent too much Time on my own, that certain aspects of my social being remain but they are not connected, the wires are cut, Do you ever feel as though you may know too much? That what you have been thinking about & the things that you have applied yr inner energies to have taken you out of the realm of the regular, and now it seems that the world is adhering to the bland concept of the lowest common denominator so that no one is left out, I’m crazy, I think somehow or other I am socially insane, a bad citizen, I have no reference pt. at all to my own society.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

breezing for a moment

Love, a sustainable state of insanity?

Tossing and turning throughout the night, not in a restless way but as part of the whole - and the whole was good.

In my dreams I would be answering questions. Then I’d rollover and start another phase of the same dream, not anxious or conscious, but knowing. Physically I was relaxed and never woke in a bad position or sore. Spectacular.

I feel as though I am breezing, flying through this life without knowledge of the present. I’m wondering how I’m going to do all this. I haven’t got a clue.

Forward eyes and forward motion. This is my idea of right now. Onward and …well, onward!

The long, last rays of sunshine slanting through the green new grass. In the distance, carried on a still cool Spring breeze, “Money for nothing…Iwant my… I want my… I want my MTV…” can be faintly but distinctly heard.

Thoughts of love and companionship. Cart before the horse thoughts.

To break this dreamscape life. To see what is through my eyes. To translate these actions, these growths and their inherent pains and jubiliations. But most importantly to do it.

Voices carry over from past times. Neil Young keeps popping up. Neil’s music reminds me of a good friend. No longer among the living in the flesh. Although he is in many hearts, living in love. Remembered.

Motorcycle days are ahead of me. The excitement builds.

Enforcement of ideas and plans.

Intellect and education often only alienates and confuses.

Social patterns, real and imagined, are cow trails through the wilderness. Full of shit and pricks.

Doubt is the plague of modern man.

Youth begets Youth/Age begets Beauty

The fear, and therein the power, of being ostracized in our society is much stronger (greater) than a physical beating.

Rules are made to be exceptions to.

In the lightning flash, silhouettes are revealed.

A series of sketches, like the artist sketches his models-short poses and long- but of people, things, moments, and sunbeams. This is what I want to do? I don’t know. It seems on one hand frivolous and w/out reason. On the other it will create a series of moments perpetuated by themselves into their own eternities.

These greats truths that I know are nothing more than mere reflections of what they are understood as. How does one respect and honour reflections?

Without pain Life is dull.

Dieters like the religious when true to their calling rarely speak to preach about their calling. It is the ones who doubt that speak incessantly about it.

All I ever do is wait. Life is a series of waiting. Sometimes the pay-off is fantastic. Sometimes it’s simply a set-up for the next session of waiting. Perhaps it’s what you do while yr waiting that counts.

Piazza Michaelangelo at Sunset

The sun begins to set to the applause of distant churchbells ringing, calling the devout to worship and the watchless to dinner. The city below is praised in languages foreign to me but not the view. German, Japanese, Italian, and yet they must speak the same words that have been spoken for ages. The final dip behind the Tuscan hills sends the sunlight pink and flaming to the bottom of the clouds reaching through to the grey outer limits. A jet splits the city sky in two.

Lovers, old and young, holding hands, arms around one another, touching. Renewing themselves with a view most complete. The birds have now begun to sing their evening song from trees nearby.

I try not to look back at the parking lot, although even that has a certain beauty in this light. O what an illustrious city! Centuries upon centuries of work, defining work, held within its broken walls. Gates calling out to weary travellers of old.

The cool night breeze has picked up as the lights of Fiesole begin to dot the far hillside. But the chill refreshes, reminds me only of comforts later to be afforded. To my left is a perfect little valley replete with vineyards, olive groves, villas and blossoms. Straight ahead the remains of today’s sunlight with a church's duomo and the Arno flowing under Ponte Vecchio. The tower in Piazza della Signoria stands proud against the background smoked grey hills.

Civic to Spiritual my eye swings as Chiesa de Maria de Fiore fills the view of the citied skyline. Brunelleschi’s grand Duomo standing out like the Queen of the Valley. The jet’s stream is pure pink against a fading blue sky.

A natural line up from the buildinged street-like fields to the Duomo to the heavens and back to the piazzalle in time to watch a beautiful redhead walk up the stairs. O Beauty absorbing.

Darkness is now descending to alleviate the overwhelming sense of grandeur. And yet Santa Croce stands to my right with a silent (and not visible from here) Dante and I watching over it. Magnificent the accomplishments, human accomplishments that were realized in this city.

The old waiter removes the settings from his patio tables that overlook the city. His trade, with the Sun, are gone till tomorrow.

I look around in the fading light to see a radiance, similar, in all the faces. An inherent glory of sorts. The wind has now chilled me to the point of departure. And the feeling I get as I prepare to leave is that the people up here and the city are now as one: lit up as a reward for being here.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

“…and everyone’s in love and flowers pick themselves.” ee cummings

Where are the poets today? No, pardon me let me re-phrase this question. Where are the love poets of today? It is quite possible that I am looking in the wrong places but as of late the poetry I have heard and seen is all about stage posturing and cute flip flop word plays. Now, that this is not my cup of tea in no way negates the power or refutes the authenticity of these poets. No, but I just want to know where the love poems of today are. Does all poetry have to have an agenda? Race related, poverty related, I got the society blues related?

I ask again: Where are the poets of today? The love poets? Are we so hardened and cynical that we no longer need or desire to hear the words of love spoken? Do we present such an unlovable presence that the world no longer has a want to hear tender words spoken? Has Hallmark and the other corporations who have made things like Valentines a money making fiasco also jaded us to the point where we wouldn’t know good love verse if it jumped up and bit us in the ass?

Is it that poetry doesn’t pay? And our poets have now become lyricists? Writing and fronting music bands? Did Leonard Cohen set the pace when he crossed over from poet to singer?

And what if none of it really mattered at all? What if this is all some kind of randomness that we can’t see through anyways? What if there is nothing? Truly nothing to live for except life? Would we be able to recognize such a mediocre idea as this?

Thursday, February 12, 2009

I Ching wisdom in the flash of a coin toss

#29 K'an/The abysmal (Water)
___ ___
___ ___
___ ___

From 6 in the 1st line:
"By growing used to what is dangerous, a man can easily allow it to become part of him. He is familiar with it and grows used to evil. With this he has lost the right way, and misfortune is the natural result."

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

a joke

I read this joke in a book a couple of months ago and was in one of those situations where before I could do anything I was the guy on the subway laughing uncontrollably. Now I have had a couple of different reactions to it. I wasn't sure whether or not a written joke would be funny said out loud. Some people laughed as hard as I did, some guffawed, some smiled enjoying the joke, and one person said "I don't get it." And after explaining the joke they said "Yeah, I understand it but I just don't get what's funny." Which stunned the room and got quite a few laughs. Ok, ok, the joke:

One day up in heaven St. Peter has to go and run some errands so he asks Jesus if he would mind watching the gate for the afternoon. Jesus says no problem. Jesus is sitting there and an old man approaches. Jesus says hello, what good things have you done on earth to make you think that you should enter the gates of heaven? The old man says well, it's not so much what I have done. I am but a humble carpenter. But my son, my son brought much happiness and joy to the world and was known and loved by many. At hearing this Jesus throws his arms around the old man and cries out Father! Father! The old man replies Pinocchio?

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Letting the thieves into my own mouth to steal my brains!

These days without hearing or feeling these keys beneath my fingers... makes me wonder what have I been doing? On what travels of fancy or dread have I been? Time appears quite static and space has a heaviness weighing upon me that Sisyphus would have envied. And yet the closer I draw to the grand negative, the sleep of the damned, death, the more I fight. The brighter my inner flame burns, burns for life. To live. To die on fire. To never stop until it is over.

The non-stop bombardment of image and sound that repeats and echoes itself ad nauseum. We are a society of sameness and sound-clip communication. I am not beyond this is any better than or hoiler than thou way. I am in it. I am of it.

What is the fascination, no, obsession of being lost in others' worlds? How does the writing of another hold me so fascinated, so stuck in a moment, so absolutely beyond my being? It is staggering. I reel. I rock.

How can I believe in others' words so completely? To think that I have had some similiar thing happen to me? Objective subjectivity. It's all about almosting. Almosting the feeling, almosting the emotion, almosting the scene... then we are one, one humanity. How can pain, like love, be felt in harmony? What does it matter? Is it about the fear of realizing we are alone, that communion, brother and sisterhoods are mere band-aids to the truth? What veil has been drawn that we have collectively allowed ourselves to believe in this? Happier times, childhood eyes filled with the fiction of living. How to live in this world? How not to? Mere muscle reflex is all that truly keeps me going.

Is there a term for life that is in the realm of alone that does not incur the idea of loneliness? Solitude? But with a positive light?

These are my 'day' thoughts. The ones that see the light of outside. Outside my cracked and dusty cranium.


This life has been an ongoing series of "realityizing" my image of it. I imagined it all as a child and since I have been going out and exploring all of it, it has been illusion of sorts. The cold reality sometimes standing up, sometimes even more impressive but never does the world template of my mind "fit" over the other world. My eyes are slowly opening. I don’t feel as though I am on the earth. No feeling of connection; no binding factor. I can smell the cold in the wind; but it is an abstract. The sound of my crunching boots in the snow fills my ears; but I am beyond a relation to my own forlorn steps. I can see the miles of country, roads, and sky; but they do nothing for my senses. The metallic taste of blood when I suck on my teeth reminds me of little. What gravity-less moments. I’d say floating-like if the weight of knowledge wasn’t pressing down on me. Realizing the minutest particles of my being’s day to day routine. Understanding the tick tick machinations of my soul; and body. Excluding myself from an outward self, a social self. Seeing the futility in such pursuits. O, damn. The conclusions, foreseen, are without future. I wish they were without merit. The beep beep of the computer chess game brings me back to the excitement of the day. A rather devious bishop of mine has breached the wall, so to speak. Looking for a binding factor. A point of reference that can hold this mess of consciousness together. And a Rosetta Stone in order to understand it all. These are some of things I will put on my list for Santa Claus this year.

Friday, February 6, 2009

One day I will want to live in a poppy dream, somewhere pretty.

I have fears about how words sound. Too simple. Too dull. Too slow. Too habitual. When is the magical time of words going to dawn? A revolution of alphabets? The marching of letters?
I live in an inverted future; really my past.
I was broke, lonesome and my shoes were full of blood as I walked the cold streets of Paris. I walked miles and miles each day in order to save a few coins in order to gain entrance into another museum. To see masterpiece upon masterpiece until I thought no more tears could run down my face. No more pure joy could be transmitted into me without my becoming two people, there, then and permanently, to boot. It was a re-birth in the midst of one more light going out.
A trick to save money at the museums: go to the gift shop and look at the postcards of the collection. If there is a painting that you have to see live, well then you pay. If not you might buy a p.c. or two still coming out ahead from the admission price. Often the equivalent of a rewarding beer in a smoky and warm cafe nearby.
It's all about realizing that money and how it's saved and how it's spent is a very fluid motion. It must always be moving in order for more to come along. Logic that is.
Anyways, one of my days I arrived at the Musee de Picasso. I was enjoying it very much. Learning about and seeing a lot of his work in one place at one time. It wasn't until I came face to face with the painting "Man Eating an Ice Cream Cone" that I realized how very playful the masters, the true masters, the geniuses, truly are. Leading us along, showing us the way, or a way, and the power of their shared visions pulling us along like back-drafting a semi in a V.W. bus across the praries. Poetry. Belief. Harmony.
Some works are very much like a theatrical wink given so that nobody misses the irony or humour of the situation. What moxy! What chutzpah! What balls! Bravo! I cry out again Bravo!
For in all things I see 'it' in a flash. I also see the cheap imitations in a flash, a heartbeat. Transported to the heaven inspired heights and just as suddenly to fall to the depths of bad taste, mainfested misguided inspiration. (Bullocks!)
God, the mad deaf Ludwig knew it.
Sweet, beatitudinal Blake knew it.
Montreal's own Mordecai Richler knew it.
There is a long and worthy list of those that exalted in it.
I'll tell ya a secret. It could have only come from one thing, simply: LOVE.

Thursday, February 5, 2009

there's a first for everything; once.

Um, well thinking about starting this off w/ some kind of a great bang. Y'know like taking on all the evil in the world, inviting it to a Ball of some kind and then playing accordian music all night.
So, instead of a great big bang it would seem this beginning is going to be a slow one. My fingers are a bit itchy and the thoughts are knocking on the door to be let out but something is holding me back.
I'm going to think on it. I will return.